If you asked a mime why they always had to be silent while performing, they'd say something about how it drew attention to the motions, or helped them to focus. That was bullshit.

The reason that silence was decreed by the académie pour l'obscurcissement des arts occultes et de la magie, was to make the real effect of the magic invisible to the average person. One interacted with the world with the hands first, the eyes second, and the mouth third. Not talking meant obfuscating a little bit of the magic from view.

Which is why, as the mime's yell snapped me out of my happy little stroll through the back alleys of Bordeaux, I watched as a pane of glass appeared before his hands, his palms flattened against it to brace against the coming impact. Through the glass, through the veil between realities, I caught the murkiest glimpse of something, a writhing mass of hands and arms and teeth, and then the sound of shattering glass.

The mime grit his teeth, shards of glass flying across his face and drawing red pinpricks of blood onto his white makeup.

"Merde... Run!" the mime repeated, forming yet another invisible box. He had a little more time now, wiping his hand across the glass as if to polish its surface. The horrific... thing on the other side slammed into the glass again, sending a loud hollow thud through the street. The mime skidded backwards, his shoes scraping along the pavement. That sent me running, scampering as best I could through the unfamiliar streets.

But the alleys I was running through now were not the same as the ones I left. The veil of reality that nice, normal people believed in had been torn from my eyes. In each window, I caught glimpses of that thing from the abyss, watching me with one of a thousand eyes. Arms and feet reached out from mailboxes and gutters, trying to grab me or trip me over. The sky had turned a deep wine-red, the sun a watchful eyeball.

And as I rounded yet a other corner, there stood the worst sight of all. It was a horrid mess of flesh and bone, taking up the entire alleyway as it languidly crawled towards me - this wasn't even a fraction of its true size. It whispered in a hundred different tongues as I stood there, frozen. And just in front of the monstrosity? A couple enjoying a morning stroll, none the wiser to the thing behind them.

"You alright, buddy?" the man asked. His words were gentle and caring, but he stepped between me and the woman, as one does between crackheads and the people you love.

I couldn't force a word out. What words would even befit the situation at hand? I motioned wildly at the thing behind them, trying to express with my hands what words couldn't do. The man put an arm across the woman's torso, forming a shield between her and me. Of course they didn't get it. They hurried quickly past me, the man muttering something about a drug epidemic.

And the thing was getting closer. But the way the man had put out his arm had put an idea into my head. If only I could do something! I reached out with my hands, as the thing drew ever closer, and brought up an imaginary sniper rifle to my eye. Just the way my brother and I had when we were kids. And I fired.

The thing screeched in pain, a sound that shook the earth and cracked the heavens. I had fired at the most vital-looking thing I could find, a mass of eyes and teeth and a large, bulbous vein. It recoiled, tumbling over itself back down the alleyway. Behind me, I heard the screech of tires.

There was a man, his suit and his skin painted a pure gold. He hovered in mid-air in a sitting position, with only the cane in his hand anchoring him to the ground.

"Get in," he yelled, though I saw no vehicle. "Your brother is waiting."

"Get in? What are you talking about?" I yelled back. The thing was beginning to advance once more.

"Come on, get in!" he yelled again, as it began to thunder down the alleyway.

I pointed my sniper rifle again, and fires, but nothing came out.

"Hurry!" he screamed, as arms and legs dragged the thing forward, grabbing at the windowsills and doorways of people who knew nothing of this world.

I ran towards the man and lifted one leg high up into the air, trying to find purchase on something. I merely stomped the ground. Once, twice, and then finally I felt my foot brush against something. I hurled myself forwards, a maneuver that would have cracked my head against the pavement if I hadn't instead felt soft leather against my cheek. And then suddenly the cobblestones underneath me were whizzing by, as the golden man and I sped away from whatever that thing was.

"What. The hell. Was that?" I gasped. I wanted to sit up to catch my breath, but I was worried that if I moved the spell would break and I would hit the ground at speed.

"The Mimic," the golden man said.

And whatever else I asked, he said nothing, the picture of the stoic performance artist. Only the slightest tilt of his cane changed our direction as we moved smoothly through the city streets.

It was a normal day in this strange Massachusetts city, quite strange indeed. Putting the unfamiliarity of this city from New York and LA, it is normal here, quiet and peaceful.

As of now, I am here walking along the streets of the city, minding only my own mind—or, just minding my own business. Birds chirping across the trees, albeit dull and red; as it was in the autumn. It was quite cold when I exited my house, but right now the heat seemed to rise—only a little, albeit—but it rose none-the-less, so I have took off my overcoat somewhere along that what's-her-name Carter along the road. As was yesterday, the mime I had seen was still there. Yesterday, he seemed to be holding an invisible object back, and I must say his acting was splendid. If he was in a play he'd be a star! Back to the present, the mime seemed to be deep in concentration, until, he had arisen from his sit, looking at me, and then behind. It was bleak in the night, the lights being a major and key factor in me seeing the mime. Now that I have mentioned it, a mime acting in the middle of the night, quite strange.

More strange however, was that the mime was now behind me, recreating his famous invisible box, appearing to be shouting something at me as I move my eyes over to his position. I look on in confusion, and right about now, citizens pour from their apartments and restaurants—waiting for something. The mime, as I look back, struggles. As I've said, a famous actor he'd be if only he'd taken up the path—he is even dropping beads of sweat! I've never seen such a performance!

​

. . .

​

Oh, dear.

​

It seems that I have remembered the cause for this, I distinctly remember hearing from a friend what'd happen on this day. Soon enough, what I've remembered is true, as the mime's glass breaks, and out pours the messenger—the envoy—the carrier. "I'll hold it back! Run!" the mime says, fruitlessly though, as I appear to be the only one who hears it, he seems to be speaking some more. I could not tell his words from his mouth as I splendor in his presence. As I take in his beauty? Horror? whatever he is, the electronic lampposts turn off, breaking. Only the luminous moonlight guided us—if there were even more people with me—and even then it only pointed in his direction. All of a sudden, the city shifts, yellow faces in hoods stand atop pillars, behind me now were stairs endless—people appearing from the stairs as though they had started climbing it before it manifested behind me, and finally, I see him in a shade of his form. All this I am experiencing now, I do not know what shall become of me, and I only hope that oblivion awaits me. Finally, I know it, my destination, dare I even speak it. I walk along pavements I've never seen yet memorize into a weed-choked subway, along with a huge group of people.

If a divine power reads these thoughts of mine, I only pray for a peaceful oblivion. If I am to witness this coming, I wish for it to be uneventful. For all this to be a case of mass hysteria, just something, anything other than the truth I shall face. I pray to see my family again, I pray that my life shall live longer than this, I pray that—even if for a moment—I wake up from this nightmare. If only that were my fate. I shall say to you, reader of my words, god of thought and speech, that this shall be my final counting, I have told you all that I have proceeded. As I walk down the steps. . . I pray for salvation. . .

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. . .

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

🆕 New Here? ✏ Writing Help? 📢 News 💬 Discord

I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please contact the moderators of this subreddit if you have any questions or concerns.